With All My Heart
by Quinn Anderson
Summary: AU in which every time a person falls in love, a red line like a tally mark appears on their wrist. Sherlock is determined to keep himself from ever gaining one of these marks for fear that love will corrode his mental faculties. Then he meets John Watson. Johnlock.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is yet another random idea that popped into my head and came out as a fic. I hope you enjoy it! It will have three chapters, all of which are already written and will be posted weekly.

If you're a fan of teenlock (or kid, parent and unilock), please check out the fan fiction recommendations blog I co-run on tumblr: fuckyeahteenlock dot tumblr dot com. We welcome all pairings (though we're mainly Johnlock).

**Warnings: **angst, future smut

...

...

The marks are a subject of endless fascination for ordinary people.

Women discuss them in low, conspiratorial voices between sips of overpriced cocktails. Men chortle when they spot a new one on a friend's wrist and shove each other playfully, slinging crude jokes in guttural tones. Girls giggle with delight when their first ones blaze onto their white, tender skin. They wear short sleeves despite the bone-aching chill of London's winter so they can bandy them about like blood-coloured jewellery.

Sherlock thinks they're all idiots.

Every morning he wakes and feels a familiar twinge of anxiety, an irrational pang of panic as he sits up in bed and turns his forearms over, his eyes darting quickly from wrist to elbow and back again. His skin is unmarred, of course, except for a handful of scars he earned from experiments gone awry. No new marks have appeared in the night, and logically he knows nothing could have happened to change that.

He can't help the ritual, however. It's a compulsion at this point, comparable to the violin he plays when he needs to organise his thoughts or the skull that always listens attentively. The idea that one day a bright red line—thin and short like a tally mark—might spring up on his arm, never to fade or change, is so anathematic to him, he can't stop the shudder that prickles down his spine.

He's in no danger, he reminds himself as his eyes turn towards his window. London sprawls outward like a grey jungle cat made of stone and shards of glass. The horizon is obscured by the gleaming metal of skyscrapers and the haze of impending rain. Naked trees reach towards the sky with black, bony fingers, and the people on the streets undulate in anonymous waves.

He's in no danger.

…

…

John is six years old when he first notices the neat row of red lines on his mum's arm. He's always known they were there, of course—they're so obvious you'd have to be blind to miss them—but the actual realisation of their presence is like a camera lens coming into focus for the first time.

His mum spots him staring and pauses, her hands white with a dusting of flour. Their kitchen is thick with the aroma of pies and the bunches of cinnamon sticks she's arranged on the windowsill.

"What are they?" John asks. He doesn't specify because he doesn't need to.

Honey-brown eyes study him for only a moment before she answers, "They're called Adorations. They appear on your skin when you fall in love."

John smiles, and his cheeks are plump with the roses of childhood. "Then how come I don't have one for you?"

His mother chuckles and kisses him on the forehead, smudging flour affectionately onto the tip of his nose with her thumb. "That's a different kind of love, sweet. Adorations are earned. We didn't have to do anything to love each other with all our hearts."

She hands John a bit of uncooked gingerbread, and he squishes it between his pudgy, pink-tipped fingers. "Will I have one someday?"

"Oh, love, with a heart as big as yours I'm sure you'll have plenty."

…

…

It doesn't take Sherlock long to work it out.

He may only be twelve years old, but he's far cleverer than the majority of the adults he knows. Mummy and Father had always been proud of the solitary red lines on their wrists. They were a sign of prudence and fastidiousness of character, his father told him once. They had each carefully evaluated their feelings towards others in their youth and had thus avoided the undesirable consequences of impulsive romance. Then one day they'd found each other, and that had been the end of that. A single line had formed on each of their arms, and they had enjoyed a felicitous union.

That is, until they'd hired a new groundskeeper to mind the extensive garden in the back of Holmes Manor. He was the sort of man they never encountered in their usual society: uneducated and raw, with a voice like cracking rock and thick limbs that were carved with muscle. There was no reason why he should matter in the slightest beyond the state of their azaleas.

Sherlock didn't notice at first when Mummy took to wearing long sleeves even around the house. It was February, and the air was cold enough to bite through marrow. Gradually, however, the truth was etched into the tight lines around his father's mouth and the blue-purple colour that stained the skin beneath his eyes.

Sherlock glanced across the dinner table at Mycroft one evening with a question in his eyes, and his brother slowly shook his head.

Sherlock didn't have to look to know what he would find on Mummy's arm.

The words were never spoken aloud, but they hung in the air like carcinogenic smog. In the years to come, Sherlock would often contemplate if it wouldn't have been kinder if Mummy had simply poisoned her husband. While her skin glowed with the thrill of new love, Father's grew waxen and clung eerily to his skull. The keen intelligence and dignity that were once the cornerstones of his personality faded into lassitude. His back grew stooped beneath an invisible burden, and Sherlock began to wonder if it were possible to die of heartache.

Sherlock had taken to sitting in the wooden chair by his father's bedside and reading to him from the many tomes that filled their family library. Father never so much as glanced at him no matter how he tried to engage him. He sat perfectly still with his hands folded in his lap and stared out the bay windows that overlooked the garden. Mummy spent her afternoons out there, tending the white roses that grew in abundance. Sherlock didn't want to think about what must be going through his father's head as he watched her laugh and raise perfumed blossoms to her nose.

On just such a day, Mycroft entered the room and clicked the door shut quietly behind him. Sherlock paused and glanced up from the book in his hands. Mycroft never visited Father unless he had some business to attend to. Despite the fact that he'd essentially taken charge of the estate—and was currently enrolled at Cambridge on top of everything else—Mycroft still occasionally needed Father's signature on legal documents.

Today, however, his eyes went straight to Sherlock.

"You know this could happen to us, little brother." Mycroft was dressed in a crisp grey suit that made him look much older than he actually was. His hair was slicked back, and his jacket puckered out in front over the belly fat that had been slowly accumulating since Mummy's indiscretion became common knowledge.

Sherlock didn't respond, but he raised a quizzical brow.

"Love, Sherlock, is possibly the most dangerous and unpredictable force in the universe." Mycroft began to slowly unbutton his right cuff, rolling up his sleeve as he went. "It has the power to take the most profound minds and reduce them to smouldering rubble, to shadows of their former glory." His eyes darted to their father, and Sherlock scowled. Even though Mycroft was obviously talking about him, they both knew Father couldn't hear a word. He might as well have been one of the dusty tapestries hanging on the wall.

When Mycroft's sleeve was rolled up to his elbow, he turned his wrist to Sherlock. The skin was smooth and bore not the slightest trace of an Adoration. Sherlock couldn't say if he was surprised or not. Mycroft had never displayed any romantic interest in anyone during secondary school, and it seemed a year of uni had done little to alter that.

"This is the only way to protect your mind," Mycroft said in a deceptively even tone. "It is the only way to prevent your own ruination. You'll rot just like Father if you don't guard your heart against the folly of _love_." He spat the word out and glared at where it hovered invisibly in the space between them.

Mycroft left as abruptly as he'd appeared, though his warning lingered. The following morning was the first time Sherlock woke in a panic and anxiously checked his arms.

…

…

John walks into his first lecture at St Bart's and nearly falls flat on his face. There's a girl—a woman, he should say—sat in the front row who he swears is the most beautiful creature he's ever laid eyes on.

Her hair is golden silk cascading down her back in sheets, and she has the end of a pen pressed delicately between two rows of straight, white teeth. She's gazing off into the distance as she nibbles on the plastic, tapping her slender fingers on the surface of her desk. John can see galaxies in her eyes, and never before has he so desperately wanted to know what someone was thinking. He would give anything, _everything_, to know just that one thing.

The sudden spark of heat and pain in his left arm makes him drop his books with a dull _thud_. He clutches his wrist and sucks in a breath, already knowing what's happening beneath the material of his jacket. It's not his first mark, but the sensation is impossible to grow accustomed to. It feels like his veins are itching, squirming like a living thing, and his heart is too big for his chest.

It's rare to have it happen from sight alone, but it's not unheard of.

When the tingling fades and he finally looks up, the woman is watching him. Her rose petal lips are curved up into an unspoken promise.

John takes the seat next to her and only barely works up the nerve to say hello.

…

…

If he never sleeps, Sherlock reasons, it can't sneak up on him.

He knows an Adoration can form at any time, but when he's awake and alert he's convinced he can thwart them. It's when he sleeps that he's vulnerable, and he must therefore reduce the risk of being caught unawares.

He turns to legal stimulants at first, but it's not long before those fail to satisfy his needs.

He never fully appreciates the irony of blunting his brain with drugs in order to keep it safe.

…

…

John isn't sure which is more bewildering: the enemy soldiers shouting at him in a garbled tongue he can't understand or the sheer beating force of the sun on his back. The steady_pat pat pat _of gunfire bursts in his ears as he bends over a man bleeding out in the sand. His blood is dark and thick like oil as it gushes out of him and drenches the ground. His eyes are wild with fear, and foam is drying into crust at the corners of his mouth. John presses a soaked rag hard to the wound, but nothing he does seems to staunch the hot flow. He can hear footsteps pounding around him, but the world has narrowed to the dark eyes boring into his, silently begging him to save his life.

John glances at the man's arm through the holes in his tattered army fatigues. There are only two marks on it, just under the crook of his elbow. They look pale compared to the vivid colour of his blood.

"Too soon," John whispers in a ragged voice. The man has stopped thrashing in pain, and his eyes are muddied. "You should have had so many more."

John spends a small eternity kneeling in the sand. He thinks about the blood staining his fingers and the gun at his side and the foxholes they all dug this morning, knowing they were really graves. Eventually someone grabs him and hauls him to his feet. He doesn't look to see if it's an enemy or a friend. He feels the twinge of the dozen lines on his left arm and silently thanks anyone who's listening that he's had the chance to love half as much as he has.

…

…

When Sherlock first meets John, he knows something is different. He hasn't the faintest clue what that something is, but its presence is akin to electricity sizzling all around him. The moment their eyes lock across the laboratory in Bart's, his skin tingles and the hair on the nape of his neck stands up. The undeniable existence of it perches in the back of Sherlock's mind, taunting him like Rumpelstiltskin as he tries and fails to guess its name.

Sherlock is not surprised when John kills for him mere hours after their initial meeting. The man has displayed an almost self-destructive predilection for saving others that Sherlock would sneer at if it weren't so convenient. A quick chat with Mycroft ensures that John will not be charged with the crime, and Sherlock buys him dinner.

If he checks his arm a bit more frequently than usual, it's not for any particular reason.

…

…

"He's the biggest prat I've ever met," John says to Lestrade one evening over pints. They've met up at a pub near NSY under the pretence of watching Man U slaughter Fulham, but they both know what this really is: a chance to whinge about their favourite consulting drama queen.

"No arguments here." Lestrade downs the foamy dregs in the bottom of his glass and signals the bartender for another. "Has he done that thing yet where he leaves dishes in the chairs where you usually sit—"

"—so you have to take them to the sink for him!" John interrupts. "Yes! He does that to me all the time. He knows I'll end up washing them just to keep them from piling up. I've half a mind to dump them on his bed, but then he'd probably sleep in mine, the git."

Lestrade shoots him a sidelong look, but all he says is, "Yeah, he does that to poor Molly with coffee mugs when he stays late at Bart's. Makes my blood boil, watching her clean up after him while he completely ignores her. Sometimes I wonder if he actually is a sociopath."

John swallows a generous gulp of his beer and then taps the glass thoughtfully with a fingernail. "He's not a sociopath; not really, anyway. I know he likes to say that he is, but I think that's his way of protecting himself."

"How does convincing everyone you're a manipulative bastard protect you?"

"Well, if no one ever gets close to you, they can't work out how to hurt you. Sherlock makes sure no one can break his heart by keeping everyone at a distance."

John realises what he's said a moment too late. They fall into an uneasy silence. Talking about feelings while a football match is on violates every man code in the book. Lestrade rubs the back of his head awkwardly and makes a comment about how Fulham's Midfielders must have shown up drunk, they're playing so sloppily.

John quickly agrees, happy to change the subject to something more neutral, and they launch into a detailed discussion of offensive strategy. Several hours and quite a few pints later, John says goodnight to an inebriated Lestrade who in turn gives him a much more enthusiastic hug than he would have received sans alcohol. A ten-minute cab ride leaves John standing in front of 221B Baker Street, and he tiptoes in as quietly as he can to avoid disturbing Mrs Hudson; (she's not taken her herbal soothers in weeks, and frankly everyone wishes she'd go back on them.)

The flat is silent, and silver moonlight spills across the floor like puddles of mercury. John almost dares to hope Sherlock is actually sleeping, but it's more likely he's at Bart's or digging through a skip somewhere. John removes his jacket, hangs it on the coatrack and is just about to set his keys on the coffee table when he glances at his armchair.

He'd left a plate of risotto on the worktop before he met Lestrade in the hopes of tempting Sherlock into consuming actual food. It's now half-eaten and balanced innocently on the Union Jack pillow, looking for all intents and purposes like it's about to watch some telly or curl up with a book.

John smiles despite himself. He will never admit it to Lestrade, but his annoyance at having to clean up after a grown man is often overshadowed by his pride at having got Sherlock to take care of his "transport."

Chuckling fondly, John carries the plate into the kitchen, cocoons it in cling film and sticks it in the fridge.

If he's _really_ lucky, he'll convince Sherlock to eat the rest of it for lunch. Or at the very least to not use it to grow mould cultures.

…

…

Sherlock is lying in bed with his palms pressed together beneath his nose. He's still wearing the deep blue suit and polished shoes he'd selected for his appearance as a witness in the Machiate trial. His testimony ensured the life imprisonment of a murderer and paedophile. The satisfaction he feels at bringing the man to justice is counterbalanced by a familiar influx of boredom.

The distraction of a case is bittersweet and fleeting. His mind has reverted to the maelstrom of unbridled thought that typically dominates his cognitive processes. The firing of his synapses is tantamount to bullets ricocheting down axons and myelin sheaths. Half-formed images flicker before his eyes and dissolve into crackling static. London breathes all around him, inhaling lungful after lungful of human life and exhaling plumes of industry. The stars are dying, and so is everything else. His lifespan is seeping out of his pores, and all the king's horses cannot fit Pangea back together again.

Sherlock reaches for his phone before he entirely knows what he's doing.

_I envy the quietude of your simple mind. – SH_

Half a minute later, he receives a reply.

_Just because I'm not as clever as you doesn't mean I'm simple. Now go to sleep._

Sherlock's lips quirk up just slightly, and he taps the reply button.

_Is it nice? Being able to ignore the higher cognisant capabilities of your mind and simply fall asleep? – SH_

_At the moment, I really wouldn't know. And for that matter, why are you texting someone who's currently in the same flat as you? You could just pop upstairs for a chat._

Sherlock doesn't have an answer for that. He mostly attributes it to listlessness, but as always it feels like another word is dancing just beyond his grasp.

The quiet is roaring in his ears, exploding into splintered thoughts like shrapnel. They implant themselves behind his eyes and set his heart to pounding. His senses are overly sharp and vivid: the white walls burn, and sirens shriek in the night. Shadows bleed across the floor as the howling wind swells into a wild crescendo. He can _hear_ and _see_ and _smell_ simply everything. His skin feels like its vibrating, trying to peel right off his bones. Information floods into his brain in a heady cocktail that makes his stomach lurch.

He sends a text without considering the wisdom of his words.

_I used to use a syringe to make it quiet. Now I use you. – SH_

He hears footsteps moving above him almost immediately. They bound down the stairs and kiss the hardwood floor leading up to his door. John knocks and calls his name. His voice is an IV, dripping with concern.

Sherlock doesn't answer.

He falls asleep to a lullaby of ambulance sirens and knuckles rapping against his door.

…

…

John pinches the bridge of his nose and wills himself to calm down. The shattered remains of his favourite tea mug lie in the centre of their kitchen, and he's just spent the better part of a minute working a shard of ceramic out of the tender arch of his foot.

"Why didn't you just clean it up?" he asks, struggling to keep his voice even. He's sat at the table with his leg crossed to elevate his injured foot. The flannel he's pressed to it is only barely helping. Rivulets of blood are trickling down his heel and dribbling onto the floor.

Sherlock, the absolute prick, doesn't even look up from his microscope. "I was busy."

"Not so busy you couldn't break my mug but too busy to spend five minutes cleaning it up?"

"Obviously."

John's temper flares despite himself. "You heard me come down the stairs. Why didn't you warn me?"

"I assumed your powers of observation—limited as they are—would be sharp enough to pick up on it. In the future I'll be certain not to assign you even that modicum of credit."

"So, you just left the mess there in the hopes that I would notice it?"

"Well, to be fair, with how little you notice I never had much hope."

John's vision heaves and crackles black around the edges.

"This is bullshit!" he shouts before he can stop himself. Sherlock finally deigns to raise his head and blinks impassively. Somehow, that makes it so much worse. "I cut my foot open on a shard of something _you_ broke, and you're saying it's _my_ fault?"

"You should really learn to watch where you're—"

"No, Sherlock, you should learn to give a fuck about the people around you! It should occur to you that we both live here, we both pay rent and you're not the centre of the fucking universe. Not that you would know anything about the universe, since apparently even the solar system is unimportant in comparison to your massive ego."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Must we always return to that? Honestly, your inability to move past the subject is alarming. Or, rather, it would be if you didn't have such a markedly one-track mind. It's no wonder you can't even walk through your own flat without injuring yourself."

John is breathing hard. He knows he should stop talking before he says something he'll regret, but he can't. All he wants to do is punch Sherlock right in his pompous, condescending face. John can see his brain working behind his icy eyes. Sherlock is studying him like he's some sort of beast, one whose primitive behaviour needs to be catalogued and analysed. He obviously doesn't think he's done anything wrong. John is struck by the realisation that nothing he says will convince him otherwise. John is the idiot here, and Sherlock will never see him as anything else.

John just can't stop himself. His vision flashes red three times in rapid succession, and then he's speaking as if he can't control his own lips.

"This is why no one likes you, Sherlock." John's voice is chillingly quiet. His hands clench into white-knuckled fists at his side. "This is why they all hate you and call you a freak. You don't give a fuck about anyone but yourself, and yet you expect everyone to worship you just because you're clever. You can be as intelligent as you want, but that doesn't make you worthwhile. You're an insensitive arsehole, and you've chased away everyone who's ever tried to care about you." John swallows thickly. "Even me. Your precious brain isn't enough to make up for all your faults. You're not worth the _effort_, Sherlock. It's no wonder you don't have any Adorations on your arm. Who could ever stand you long enough to let you love them?"

As soon as the words leave his mouth, John knows he's gone too far.

Sherlock looks shocked. In a flash of intuition, John understands that he's betrayed some trust he didn't know Sherlock had placed in him.

The room is far too small and devoid of oxygen. The Earth is spinning vertiginously; it's broken from its orbit and is careening off into space.

John's stomach roils; he's going to be sick right here on the hardwood if he doesn't leave immediately.

John stands, wincing when he puts weight on his injured foot. He knows he should stop for his jacket and shoes, but he needs to get out of there _now. _He darts out of the kitchen, through the sitting room door and pounds down the stairs. When he bursts outside, the cold air doesn't bite as hard as the guilt in the pit of his stomach.

Underneath it all—the shame, the worry, the concern—however, is twisted satisfaction.

Much as he wants to believe he just lost his temper, a quiet part of him deep in his chest thinks Sherlock deserved it.

…

…

Sherlock is lying on the sofa when John finally returns. It's only been three hours, but the flat feels cold and unused with only one body in it.

John pauses in the doorway, just barely within it, like he could leave again at any moment. The thought makes Sherlock feel nauseous. John's clothing whispers a story to him: he went to a pub but didn't drink anything. He just sat in the corner and pretended to watch whatever match was playing while he got his temper under control. His fingers are twitching nervously, and he looks more tired than Sherlock has ever seen him.

"I've thought about it," John says, and his tone is as bland as the brown jumper he's wearing, "and I want to apologise. I shouldn't have said what I said, but you just—" He stops and passes a hand over his mouth. "I'm not going to sully my apology by pointing fingers or blaming part of what I did on you. I reacted a certain way, and I'm sorry I did. I hope we can move on."

Sherlock gives him a sweeping look. He sees the wear around his eyes and strain in his shoulders. John is suffering under Sherlock's care. The friendship is there, but so is the hardship. It's wearing him down, and Sherlock is doing nothing to make it easier.

And he knows it.

John sighs wearily when Sherlock doesn't respond and rubs his eyes. After a moment, he glances out the window. "It's funny."

"What is?" Sherlock's tone is dry, but he can't mask a hint of curiosity. It's unseasonably sunny outside, and the room is flooded with golden light.

"The sky." John chuckles at Sherlock's bewildered expression, and for a moment the tension leaves his face. "It's bluest at the top and grows lighter towards the horizon."

Sherlock hesitates, bemused. "If you wish for me to explain the interaction of UV rays with the Earth's atmosphere that causes this phenomenon, then—"

"No, no, none of that. I've just always found it interesting. I know the reason why it does that, of course, but it still has a certain poetry to it. The sky pales just before it hits the horizon as if it's afraid of joining the Earth. I suppose if you spend that much time high above everything, the idea of coming back down must be terrifying."

For a moment, Sherlock's mind is blank, but then understanding washes over him like cold bath water.

John gives him a small smile before he turns and heads into the kitchen.

Sherlock picks up his violin and scratches out a harsh melody.

…

…

A month passes, and John wants to believe things are fixed between Sherlock and him, but there's something niggling in the back of his mind. Something is wrong. Something has changed. He just can't seem to work out what.

It's the quiet that tips him off in the end. 221B Baker Street is practically tranquil these days, and the difference is eerie. John realises Sherlock isn't talking as much as he used to, and at first he thinks he's still angry. He thinks Sherlock is punishing him for their fight, or that he just doesn't want John as a confidante anymore. He begins to wonder if perhaps he did permanent damage to their relationship. The possibility makes his chest clench.

John tries to coax conversation out of Sherlock with interesting plant specimens and articles he clipped from the newspaper. He even goes so far as to offer to bring him to the surgery the next day so he can examine a patient's goiter. Sherlock smiles at the proffered gifts and answers easily enough, but still the silence hangs thickly in the air. John never thought he would miss the sound of gunfire in their sitting room and Sherlock shouting at the telly.

John is just beginning to panic when suddenly it clicks. He's been sleeping through the night for a solid month now. He's rejuvenated and full of energy these days. He can't remember the last time he and Sherlock had a row. How can that be?

The second he realises it, he wonders how the bloody hell he didn't notice sooner.

Sherlock isn't talking as much because he's stopped saying all the things that used to infuriate John. He's stopped shooting the walls, and he's yet to deduce anything nasty about John's girlfriend-of-the-month. It's like he's applied some sort of filter that only lets the ordinary things come out of his mouth, keeping all the bad-but-brilliant trapped in his throat.

John is so startled by the knowledge, he finds himself standing in the kitchen without entirely knowing how he got there. Sherlock is sat by the worktop with his laptop open on the table. John doesn't move, and the unnatural stillness makes Sherlock look up.

"You think you're being kind," John says without preamble. "You're trying to make it easier for me."

"Make what easier?" Sherlock asks, and John knows he doesn't need clarification. He wants to hear John say it.

"This." He gestures vaguely between them. "Us. You've cut out all the things you think I don't like about you."

Sherlock studies him. His eyes are cold, assessing him as if he's one of his experiments, and in a lot of ways John understands that he is. "Problem? I thought you would appreciate my attempt to make this a more enjoyable living experience for you."

"I appreciate _you_, Sherlock." John can't say why this bothers him so much, but it does. He fumbles for a moment as he tries to think of how to explain himself. "I know I complain sometimes, but I like all your eccentricities. I may not love the body parts stored next to our food, but that's just something that makes you who you are. It's like I told your brother: I'm never bored."

Sherlock's eyes have narrowed. "You _do_ hate those things, though. You're always telling me to stop putting eyeballs in the microwave and winding up Lestrade."

"Well, yes," John replies in an exasperated voice, "but I didn't mean—"

"You didn't mean what, John? You didn't mean it all those times you told me what to do or how to behave? You told me to change every day, and now that I have, you're still not happy." Sherlock's eyes are a mixture of frost and snapping fangs. There's a challenge in them and no small amount of anger, but there's also a deep wound that John can't believe he never noticed before. "You can't have both."

John is a complete idiot.

"Sherlock," John's voice is barely more than a whisper, "I'm so sorry. I had no idea you thought that. I want you to be yourself."

"You don't like me when I'm myself."

"God, no, I didn't mean—" He sighs and scrubs a hand over his eyes. "I liked you just the way you were."

Sherlock is quiet for a long time. He's scrutinising him as if searching for signs of insincerity. John fights the desire to squirm beneath the force of his gaze.

"I mean it," John continues. "You're one of my best mates, and even if you frustrate me sometimes, nothing you do is going to change that. You're one of the most unique, interesting people I know, and I wouldn't trade my life with you for anything."

After a pause, Sherlock smiles faintly, and John feels something loosen in his chest. "All right. I'll go back to how I was." His smile turns into a smirk. "Really though, there's no need to be so maudlin about it. For a moment I thought you might actually cry."

"You're a dick," John replies good-naturedly. "And that's just how I like you." He starts to go back to the sitting room, but then he stops and turns around. "Sherlock, why did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Change. Was it really just to teach me a lesson?"

Sherlock considers him for a long moment before he finally clears his throat and answers, "I had every intention of making the alteration to my behaviour permanent. I didn't think you would insist I return to my prior ways."

"But why?" John is even more confused now than he was before. "Why would you do that?"

Sherlock looks like he's chewing his words before he says them. "I was concerned you would seek an alternative living arrangement if I didn't make your current one more palatable. I didn't want you to leave."

Two emotions are warring in John's chest. Part of him is touched by the gesture, and another part is overwhelmed with guilt. Sometimes he forgets how human Sherlock can be.

"I'm not going to leave, Sherlock. Not ever, if you don't want me to. I promise."

Sherlock wordlessly turns back to his laptop, and John watches his fingers fly across the keyboard. The skin on his wrist twinges faintly, as if in preparation for a touch, but the feeling fades so quickly it doesn't register.

…

…

Sherlock is bedridden, and it's misery of the acutest sort.

It was a slight miscalculation, but he's furious with himself for making it. If he'd remembered to account for the pothole that recently formed on the corner of North Gower Street, he wouldn't have twisted his ankle whilst chasing down a bond forger, and he subsequently wouldn't be dying of boredom. His stark white ceiling mocks him with its plainness, refusing to produce something interesting for him to study as he stares up at it. His arms are folded over his bare chest, and his pyjama bottoms are rolled up to his knees. If he were to glance down, he'd be able to count his ribs through his thin skin and see the sharp jut of his hip bones. His swollen, purple ankle is tightly wrapped with bandages.

Even if John hadn't confined him to bed rest, the pain is too acute for him to ignore. Every attempt at putting weight on his injured ankle results in him crumpling to the floor and howling ignominiously. His transport has failed him once again, and now he's left to simmer in the frenzy of his consciousness. Thoughts scream behind his eyes and bubble up into the back of his throat, choking him as they expand until no air is left in his lungs. He loathes this, having nothing to do, nothing to focus on. He doesn't merely like the work; he _needs_ the work. He needs a conduit to channel his energy, and right now it's all just building in the pressure cooker beneath his skin. He can feel the press of it now, threatening to burst him like an over-inflated balloon.

There's a knock at the door, and John opens it without waiting for him to respond.

Sherlock's eyes flicker to him, and in one sweep he takes in every detail: John's been wearing the same jumper for three days (multiple tea stains of varying freshness), he ate a salmon butty for lunch (crumbs, hint of ketchup at his sleeve), Sarah isn't returning his phone calls and he's so exhausted he's nearly asleep on his feet (one is causing the other, could easily go either way).

"I brought you some books," John says in a close approximation of a cheerful tone. He stifles a yawn and smiles. "I figured you must be bored."

"Your assessment is an almost painful understatement," Sherlock rejoins, and John laughs.

"Yes, yes, I know how you are when you _aren't_ stuck in one place. This must be agony."

He pads over and pauses for only a moment before sitting down near Sherlock's hips. He tips five books onto the bed, and Sherlock glances at them impassively. There are two of John's old medical texts, a copy of Asimov's _The Naked Sun_, a chemistry periodical and one thing more. Sherlock stares at it, blinking slowly like a cat as he raises himself up on his elbows.

John notices where he's looking and picks up the fifth book. He's watching Sherlock's face, clearly uncertain as to how to interpret his expression.

John is holding a copy of _Harold and the Purple Crayon._

It takes several seconds before Sherlock's throat stops tightening and he can speak. He asks a single question. "Why?"

"I rang Mycroft. He said it was your favourite when you were a kid." John hands him the book, and Sherlock silently takes it. "Whenever I feel ill, I read the books I loved back then. It's strangely comforting, like coming home after a long holiday. I thought you might like to give it a go."

"You didn't get this from a library," Sherlock says slowly. "Or a bookstore." He can see the book's long history in its dog-eared pages. "This is your personal copy. You've had it for years. I can tell from the scratches and cracked spine that you've read it a hundred times."

John smiles softly, and the warm affection in his eyes burns Sherlock's skin in a way he can't explain. "You're right, of course. It was my favourite book when I was growing up as well. It's a bit beat up, and some of the pages are falling out, but it still reads like it used to."

Sherlock can tell he's unnerving John with how hard he's staring, but he doesn't care. "This book has been around the world and back. You took this to Afghanistan with you." For once, it's not a deduction. It's something he can just feel.

The hand John places on Sherlock's shoulder is excruciatingly intimate. "I did. It probably sounds silly to you—I know how you feel about sentiment—but it was a great comfort to me." His smile grows like a crowning sun at dawn. "Keep in mind, I'm only lending it to you. I expect it back in one piece, and you're not to experiment on it. No analysing the glue they used to bind books half a century ago, you barmy bastard. All right?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything because he can't. This shouldn't mean anything to him, and really it doesn't. His brain is eerily quiet as he turns the book over in his hands. He knows it's nothing but a trinket, yet his heart is shrieking out his pulse in frenetic staccato. He remembers Harold and his purple crayon. He was an industrious little boy who was dissatisfied with his world, so he drew a new one. He solved problems using ingenuity and the power of his mind, and Sherlock always admired him, even when he grew up and left such childish fancy behind him.

What strikes him now, however, is an image of John as a young man, a brave soldier—crusted with blood and sand—crouching in trenches to avoid faceless enemies he must both kill and heal, and all the while he clutches a worn children's book to his heart and comforts himself with memories of a home he may never see again.

Sherlock has received many gifts in his life, from people he's helped and relatives he's never even met. Some of them were so lavish he could have sold them and lived comfortably on the profit for years.

No one has ever given him a gift like this before.

"Thank you," he whispers so softly, he's inaudible.

When he looks up, John is gone, and somehow night has fallen outside his window. His brain stays quiet as he lies back down.

He falls asleep more easily than he has in years.

…

…

It is sleep, in the end, that is his downfall.

It seems Sherlock wasn't being paranoid after all.

…

…

Sherlock jolts awake, and for a moment his brain can't make sense of what's happening. His body thinks it's falling, and there's sharp, searing pain, but that makes sense, he remembers, because of his ankle, but then why is the pain in two places at once—

The realisation shocks through him like lightning. He bolts up in bed and glances at the spot below his right wrist where his skin is smouldering, burning, _scorching_ straight down to the bone. Though he's never felt anything like it before, he knows what it is before his eyes even focus.

The Adoration is bright orange like a glowing ember as it blazes onto his skin. It quickly darkens to holly red, and the odd, searing pain fades away. It's no longer than a few centimetres, but its rich colour makes it look like a fresh wound. He might have taken a razor blade and carved it into his flesh.

At first, Sherlock is so stunned he can only stare. Then he starts to laugh, his voice tinny and nearly hysterical.

It seems he needed to fall asleep to realise he was doing a different kind of falling.

…

…


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: There will be one final chapter after this. Enjoy, and please leave me your thoughts if you have time.

...

...

The night that Sherlock earns his first Adoration, he slips off without warning and spends a solid week away from 221B Baker Street. By the end of his sabbatical, he has 107 missed calls, 313 unread text messages and Lestrade has issued an APB on him. He thinks they're overreacting until he remembers the last time he disappeared without leaving word. Lestrade had found him days later in a dank opium den, babbling to the empty shadows.

Sherlock stays in a hotel owned by the ex-wife of a man whom he had arrested for embezzlement three years ago. She nods when he strides up to the reception desk and wordlessly hands him the key to his usual room. It's tucked down a long corridor with no other guests nearby, and the cleaning staff know not to approach it while it's occupied.

The room is simple and plain: white walls, a white bed and a small balcony he can only reach by climbing out the window. The lack of distracting adornment makes it well suited for deep thought, and Sherlock often comes here when he needs to sort through an especially convoluted problem.

His acquisition of an Adoration most assuredly fits that description.

He spends the majority of his waking hours sat unmoving on the bed, gazing at the unplugged television set on the bureau. He can see his reflection in the glass; his hair is unkempt to a near Einsteinian degree, and his dress shirt is wrinkled and stained. He bought cigarettes but is yet to decide if he's going to smoke them. He has one tucked behind his ear, just a tip of white filter peeking out of his black hair.

It takes him three days to sort through everything he's learnt about John in their year-long relationship. He places his mental catalogue of his facial expressions (from thrill-of-the-chase excitement to a-bit-not-good disappointment) next to his list of jumper patterns (must burn the one with the dancing bear on the front; it's unforgivable) and then starts on his character.

Sherlock knows that John is a good man. He's an idiot and as selfish as any other human being and certainly makes his fair share of mistakes, but he is also loyal and brave. Of all the people he could have possibly fallen in love with, John is not a terrible choice.

Sherlock has to stop after that thought and rake his fingers violently through his hair. He can't believe he let this happen. Thirty-five years of careful vigilance was undone by a single moment of weakness. He is the worst kind of sentimental fool, and he's so angry with himself his blood feels like acid. Rage claws at him from within his ribs, and he has to force himself to breathe evenly. He knows it's pointless to dwell on it, but he can't help but indulge in the darkness of his emotions for a moment. It's sickeningly satisfying to let the anger pump hot and thick into his blood. He quickly suppresses it, however. It was a lack of control that got him into this situation in the first place.

The fact of the matter is, the Adoration is there, and he must deal with the consequences.

On a more positive note, he now understands why his relationship with John is so different from his relationship with the rest of the dreary population. He's never had a friend in his life, and now suddenly he does. It was stupid of him not to work it out sooner. The nameless feeling he's carried for John since their first meeting has finally been identified. That means it can be analysed and therefore managed.

Sherlock considers telling John for a grand total of three seconds before he rejects the idea entirely. Adorations do not come in matching sets. Sherlock may love John, but there is no guarantee John loves him back, and in fact the possibility is unlikely. Sherlock would have noticed if a new mark had popped up on his arm since his last girlfriend, and though he deduced John's bisexuality months ago, they've not broached the topic beyond that one altercation in Angelo's. Sherlock knows bringing it up without waiting for John to tell him of his own volition would be one of those a-bit-not-good things John dislikes. There have been several indications that John is attracted to him (lingering eye contact, dilated pupils, willingness to kill to protect him), but despite Sherlock's lack of experience with sex, he knows the difference between physical attraction and love.

This leads Sherlock to ask himself an important question. Would he even want John to love him? Would he woo John if he thought his efforts would be successful? For the first time in his life, would he enter into a romantic relationship with another human being?

He imagines what spending a lifetime with John would be like: laughing with him, making him cups of tea, lying next to him in bed at night and chasing criminals through the dark alleys of their beloved London. It would be a glorious adventure spent with someone who loved it every bit as much as Sherlock. Affection—light and bubbly—spills into the black cavern in his chest where his anger had been raging and begins to fill the holes.

Then a vision of his father's face as he stared out the window at his laughing mother floats before Sherlock's eyes, and the beautiful illusion shatters.

No. Love is a mistake, a defect. Love is a lie ordinary people tell themselves to convince themselves that they're special, that they don't have to die alone. Sherlock will not allow himself to be swept away by the follies of his long-suppressed humanity.

Entering into a romantic relationship with John is out of the question. It will weaken his mental faculties and slow him down, like all the other superfluous urges of his transport. He needs the work too much to give it up.

He knows, however, that he also needs John's companionship. The thought of losing him aches like the line he unwittingly burnt into Sherlock's wrist.

Sherlock has no idea how John will react if he ever finds out, but the existence of a reaction is a problem in and of itself. There's no chance nothing will happen if John discovers Sherlock's feelings. He will conclude that something must be done about it—John is a man of action, after all—and he will either retreat from Sherlock or want to be with him.

Both possibilities are unacceptable.

Sherlock has only one option. He will have to hide the mark and carry on like nothing has happened. John is as unobservant as everyone else he knows. It should be simple.

If he's careful, there will be no need for anything to change.

…

…

When Sherlock finally returns to the flat, Mrs Hudson is hysterical, Mycroft is patronising and John punches him square in the face.

He is instructed to "never, ever, _ever_ do that again, you bloody berk" and informed of the variety of violent deeds John will perform on him if he pulls another disappearing act.

All the while, Sherlock is torn between the irrational impulse to take John's face in his hands, just for the sake of holding it, and his staunch refusal to do so.

The real problem, however, is the way Mycroft is looking at him. One glance, and Sherlock knows he knows.

He'd standing near the door, out of sight of the others who are still focussed on Sherlock. As Sherlock watches, Mycroft slowly unbuttons his cuff, rolling up the sleeve of his suit and then his shirt. When his wrist is uncovered, he bares it to Sherlock. The flesh is every bit as white and unmarked as it was all those years ago.

The message is clear. Sherlock is weak, just like their father. He's failed.

The disapproval in Mycroft's eyes as he turns to leave makes him cold with shame.

…

…

It's easy enough to hide. Sherlock always wears long sleeves anyway, and John doesn't think to look for something that he has no reason to believe is there.

…

…

They meet Irene Adler. She's clever and beautiful and strong, but manipulative as well. She is nothing like John Watson, yet in a lot of ways she is.

For one terrifying moment, when her face is inches from his, and her pulse is fluttering against his skin, Sherlock thinks he might actually be in danger of earning another Adoration. The biting panic that floods into him cools whatever heat there might have been between them.

The itchy, not-quite-there feeling on his wrist fades, and thankfully so does Irene, out of their lives as quickly as she entered.

Sherlock tries to work out what was different this time, why an Adoration didn't sneak up on him again, but every conjecture is as likely as the next.

In the end, he attributes it to some mysterious, unnamed factor that is entirely John in nature.

…

…

John doesn't realise he's staring until Sherlock sighs with exasperation and sets down his pipette. "Do you need something? You're putting me off."

They're in Bart's after hours. The hospital is eerie at night, with long shadows dripping down the walls and silence ringing in their ears. Their breathing and the occasional rustle of clothing are all they have to break the quiet. Sherlock is examining a fibre sample he obtained from a murder victim that might belong to the killer. John is with him for no reason other than he had nothing better to do with his evening. While Sherlock worked, he let his thoughts wander until they, along with his eyes, inevitably settled on the whirlwind of a consulting detective.

"I was just thinking," he says by way of explanation.

"I have never been more shocked."

"Shut up," John replies, but there's no venom in his words, and Sherlock is smirking. John is momentarily distracted by the way the overhead lights throw shadows beneath the sharp cut of Sherlock's cheekbones, and he misses his question.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I asked what you were thinking about."

"Well, you, actually." He hesitates for a moment before ploughing ahead. "I was just thinking about the fact that you don't have any Adorations." As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them. Sherlock's face has gone deceptively blank, and John knows he's remembering the argument they had.

"I mean, it's no big deal," John fumbles. "That you don't have any, that is. I'm just curious if you've any theories as to why. I got one once just from looking at a girl, and it's rare for someone our age to have never fallen in lo—"

"I have no Adorations," Sherlock says in a flat voice, "because I don't _want_ any. I make a point of only acquiring things that are useful, which they most certainly are not. It's pitiful how people bumble about, convincing themselves they're in love with every other person they meet when in reality they are merely afraid of dying alone. Love is superfluous and capricious."

"Right." John sighs. "Of course it is. Sorry I asked."

Sherlock turns back to his microscope, and John tries to slip back into his reverie. Their conversation keeps playing in his head, however. Sherlock's posture is tense now, rigidity settling into his shoulders and stiffening his spine. John can't shake an odd feeling in his stomach.

If he didn't know any better, he'd say it was disappointment.

…

…

John is cooking dinner for them, and Sherlock is pretending to read a book. He's sat at their table with it open in front of him, but his eyes are fixed on his flatmate. John's not doing anything particularly special, just chopping vegetables and throwing them in a pan, but Sherlock is riveted. He loves how John's face is tense with concentration, the way his fingers flex around the knife in his hands, firm and steady. Every now and again John licks his lips, and Sherlock is momentarily hypnotised by the flash of pink against tan.

There is absolutely no reason why this should be fascinating, but it is. Sherlock could watch him perform this perfectly mundane task for hours. His stomach roils with the knowledge. He can ignore his feelings all he wants, but they will never stop tormenting him.

Suddenly, John glances at him. Sherlock tries to look away but can't. Their eyes lock for three beats of utter silence. Sherlock is convinced John can read his every thought, that his love for him is surely plastered on his face. The idea alone is petrifying.

John looks pointedly away, and Sherlock is so frustrated he could scream.

He stands up, tucks his book under his arm and exits the kitchen without a backwards glance.

…

…

John stares at the row of neatly chopped vegetables in front of him, breathing deeply in an attempt to calm his racing pulse. His cheeks are florid with blood and heat, and he feels a shiver tingling at the base of his spine.

Sherlock was looking at him so intensely just then it was like he was looking_ through_ him, into all the dark, secret places he tries to hide. John could practically feel his eyes raking over his skin, crawling under it. It both unnerves and thrills him. There's something gratifying about being a subject of interest for such a magnificent mind, but it's equal parts terrifying.

John shakes his head. He's being ridiculous. He reminds himself for the hundredth time that Sherlock devotes that kind of attention to everything around him. It's how he can glance at a person and know their life story.

There is absolutely no reason to let himself get wound up about it.

…

…

Later that evening, when they're settled in the living room and the telly is flashing with images from some documentary, John glances over and sees that Sherlock is asleep in a sprawl on the sofa.

John wants to be annoyed—Sherlock insisted on having the entire thing to himself, then he goes and falls asleep—but he's too busy trying not to laugh about how much Sherlock looks like a napping cat. He's got his torso all curled up with his legs dangling off the end, and his hair is a halo of dark curls around his face.

John sets down his bowl of popcorn on an end table and reaches for the remote. They were supposed to watch _Goldfinger_ tonight, but Sherlock hasn't slept in three days, and it seems it's finally caught up with him. John is overjoyed. He didn't want to have to give him the take-care-of-your-sodding-body speech for the thousandth time.

John is just reaching to retrieve the popcorn when a thought jumps into his head as if planted there by a mischievous deity.

He hasn't seen Sherlock's wrist since their encounter with Irene Adler.

Sherlock was rather defensive when he asked him about his lack of Adorations the other day. Is it possible…? John glances at where Sherlock's right arm is slung across the back of the sofa. He's wearing a new dressing gown he bought about a month ago. John remembers thinking his selection was odd because the sleeves were clearly too long for him.

Now John wonders if Sherlock picked it for precisely that reason.

He hesitates. It would be simple to pull the sleeve up and take a quick peek. Sherlock is so knackered there's little chance he'll wake up. There's probably nothing there anyway. Then again, if Sherlock _does _have an Adoration, that means he blatantly lied to John about it and therefore doesn't want him to know. It is none of John's business, after all, no matter how much he may wish to know.

John debates with himself for precisely eight more seconds before Curiosity beats Respect For Privacy to a bloody pulp.

He creeps silently over to the sofa and leans over Sherlock, placing a hand on the wall for balance. The detective's breathing is deep and steady, and from this close John can smell him: a mixture of posh cologne, formaldehyde and the old books he keeps piled on his bed. John holds his breath and inches forward, one hand extended to grab his sleeve. His fingers have just brushed the soft fabric when Sherlock shifts slightly. John freezes. For one horrifying moment, he thinks he's been caught, but then Sherlock turns his face deeper into the pillow and continues breathing evenly.

John waits for half a minute before he moves again, pinching the fabric between his thumb and forefinger. Sherlock's arm is at a slight angle, so he can only pull his sleeve up so far. John knows this is stupid—Sherlock could easily have the mark higher up, or more likely not have one at all—but he just can't let it go until he's seen for himself.

He moves slowly, easing the fabric up as gently as he can. He works it past Sherlock's fingers, up over his knuckles and slips it ever-so-carefully up his palm. The growing anticipation makes him daring, and when he reaches the wrist, he yanks the sleeve up more quickly than he intended. Sherlock's pale flesh is bared, and John's eyes land immediately on the typical spot: the tender, vein-shot underside of the wrist onto which most Adorations appear.

John blinks. His brain takes what feels like a small eternity to process what he's seeing.

Right there on Sherlock's skin is a bright red mark that can only be one thing.

John's heart decides that after several decades of steady beating, it can afford to take a short break.

Cold seeps into him, starting at the crown of his head and trickling down his spine like ice water. It prickles beneath his skin, and it takes until his lungs start burning for him to realise he's still holding his breath.

He shouldn't be surprised. He knew this was possible. He saw for himself the way Sherlock and Irene interacted. There was clearly something there, and he shouldn't think a thing of it. Sherlock fell in love with a beautiful woman who clearly loved him back. Nothing strange about that at all.

So why does his ribcage feel like it's trying to crush him from the inside?

His vision grows dark around the edges, and the Adoration bursts into sharp focus. No matter how obvious it is to him now, he genuinely never expected it to be there.

Sherlock is not only capable of love, but he has loved before.

The knowledge shrieks in John's mind like an ambulance siren. His heart is sputtering and skipping and stuttering. He can't for the life of him make sense of what he's feeling. His emotions are a discordant jumble, all clambering for attention in the pit of his stomach.

Underneath the frenzy, however, there is a steady thrum of something John recognises all too well.

Jealousy. White hot, roaring jealousy. He knows it's completely irrational, but it's there regardless.

That is, of course, the moment that John realises Sherlock isn't breathing steadily anymore.

Fuck.

He moves his head one degree at a time towards Sherlock's face, afraid of what he already knows he'll see. Sure enough, pale eyes are wide open and drilling into his. Sherlock's gone completely still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest. John drops his sleeve and stumbles back. He feels dizzy, and his blood is buzzing in his ears.

"I was just—" he starts, but he can't seem to take a proper breath. His vision bubbles red, and his stomach heaves. "I just—I need some air."

He has no memory of leaving the flat. It's a small miracle he didn't trip down the stairs. The next thing he knows, he's outside in the freezing night air without a jacket, staring at the pavement beneath his feet.

He can't deal with this right now. He just can't.

He turns east and trudges towards Sarah's house. When she opens the front door, he tries to explain why he's there only to discover he can't. Sarah nods as if she somehow understands and beckons him inside.

It isn't until he's lying on her sofa in the dark with only his pounding heart for company that he thinks about the look on Sherlock's face when he'd caught him.

John had expected him to be angry, but that hadn't been the case at all.

Sherlock had looked terrified.

…

…

Sherlock is the biggest idiot in the entire world.

How could he have ever thought he could keep his feelings a secret? Secrets are little birds that flutter in the brains of everyone who knows them, seeking the tiniest flaw in their cage. No matter how resolutely they are locked away, they always find a crack to squeeze through eventually. Even the strongest human will is just too easily compromised.

After John stormed out—for there is no other word to describe the way he thundered down the stairs in his haste to escape—Sherlock spent a solid half hour frozen on the sofa, too overcome with horror to move. When he eventually recovered, he began pacing in front of their sitting room windows, checking outside every three seconds for a familiar blond head.

He knows it's pointless, however. John has seen the Adoration, and there can be no doubt who inspired it. John couldn't possibly have missed all the signs. Sherlock curses himself for being so careless.

Now that John knows, things can never go back to the way they were, and there's nothing Sherlock can do to fix it.

He stops and gazes out the window. The street is gleaming from recent rain, but the sky is clear. It is a starless wall of black that stares unfeelingly back at him. There are people trundling tranquilly down the street, absorbed in their own microscopic lives and problems.

For the first time in his life, Sherlock feels like one of them.

…

…

John hovers in the doorway to the sitting room. Sherlock is playing his violin—a slow piece with a melancholy tone to it—and either hasn't noticed him yet or isn't letting on. John feels the ridiculous urge to knock before entering his own flat.

Instead, he clears his throat, and the melody grinds to a halt.

Sherlock turns about slowly. He's wearing a crisp black suit, and the sunshine streaming through the window behind him outlines him in gold. He looks like an angel of death with his pale skin and emotionless eyes, surrounded by a halo of preternatural light. John fights back an odd feeling of foreboding, as if he's just got a glimpse of a bad omen.

"I'm sorry I left so abruptly," John begins, but his voice cracks. A flush creeps up his neck as Sherlock continues to watch him impassively. He takes a restorative breath and steels his nerves. "I didn't mean to react that way. I was just . . . Well, I don't know what I was. I needed some time to wrap my head about it."

Sherlock lifts his bow and studies it, as if it has something much more interesting to say than John does. The silence drags on, making the tension between them increasingly awkward. The last thing John wants to do is have some big, emotional display, but this standoff is even worse.

He's just considering escaping up the stairs to his room when Sherlock finally responds.

"I suppose your reaction was a natural one, considering how unexpected the discovery undoubtedly was. I felt similarly when it first appeared. I was so stunned, I spent a week coming to terms with it in isolation."

"That's why you left?" John blurts out. Sherlock's eyes narrow, and John quickly collects himself. "I mean, yes, it was certainly a surprise, but not as much of one as you might think. I sort of suspected after . . . well, with the way you were acting towards . . . ." He can't bring himself to say her name, so he settles for, "It was rather obvious something was there. That's why I thought to check in the first place."

Sherlock nods, but he suddenly looks miserable. "I feared I might have made my feelings too obvious. I was attempting to keep them from you for the sake of maintaining the nature of our relationship, but it seems they couldn't be repressed entirely." He turns back to the window. "However, I am confident I can contain myself more effectively in the future. Our friendship and living arrangements don't have to be affected. We can continue to cohabitate peacefully, if you wish."

John chuckles. "I wouldn't call living with you 'peaceful.'" The rest of what Sherlock said catches up with him, and he frowns. "Hang on a minute. Why would this change anything between us? I admit I reacted more violently than I should have, but I don't see why this shoul—"

"Oh, don't be daft, John!" Sherlock whirls around, his eyes blazing. His sudden anger is so palpable, John actually falls back a step. "You can't possibly pretend this doesn't change things between us. I appreciate the attempt to spare my feelings, but I assure you it's unnecessary. I'm a grown man, not a weeping maiden with a broken heart. I recognise that while I may have developed feelings for you, you're not required to reciprocate them. Please don't patronise me by pretending you have no opinion on the matter." He takes a shuddering breath, all his anger spent, and looks resolutely at the floor. "I will be as unobtrusive as I can for the sake of our friendship, but I couldn't bear it if you ignored my feelings."

John feels like all the gravity in the universe has suddenly focused its attention on him, anchoring him to the spot.

His brain short-circuits, cutting to white noise. He can't even begin to process what Sherlock has just inadvertently confessed to him. He's regarding John with a challenge in his eyes, breathing heavily. His words float between them and gradually drip into John's ears, swirling in the placid current of his rebooting thoughts.

Me, he thinks.

Sherlock is in love with _me._

It's impossible, yet it makes so much sense he can't fathom how he missed it. Sherlock said he ran away for a week when the Adoration formed. That happened long before they met Irene. She couldn't possibly be the one he fell for.

God, John's been _blind._

He needs to hear him say it.

"Not Irene?"

Sherlock blinks at him. "What?"

"It wasn't—" John has to clear his throat before he can continue. "Irene isn't the one you fell in love with? She didn't give you the mark?"

John can physically see realisation dawn on Sherlock. It ripples across his features, smoothing the crinkles by his eyes and softening his furrowed brow. For all of five seconds, he looks too shocked to speak. Then he carefully resumes his expression of haughty disinterest.

"Of course. I should have known you'd arrive at the wrong conclusion." Sherlock smiles bitterly. "As always, you see but you do not observe."

John takes a step forward. "Sherlock, are you in love with me?"

"Your limited definition of love is—"

"No." John holds up a hand to silence him. "No, don't do that. I know what that is. You give people these long-winded speeches that are peppered with insults meant to wind them up and distract them from what you're really saying. You can't pull that trick on me. I want you to tell me, very plainly, the answer to my question. Are you in love with me?"

John sucks in a breath and holds it.

Sherlock's facial expression is unfathomable. He looks lost and impossibly young. There's something else lurking in his wrinkled brow and tense lips, however. John recognises it immediately.

Fear.

Sherlock hesitates for what feels like a short eternity before quietly saying, "_Yes._"

The world screeches to a halt.

John slowly raises his eyes. His eyelids are heavy as though they've been weighted down. Sherlock looks like he can't decide what to do with his limbs. He opens his mouth only to click it shut again and rakes a hand through his curls in an aggravated manner. His expression vacillates between uncertainty and rebellion, but deep in his eyes all John can see is vulnerability. Sherlock has bared a heart he didn't know he had—peeled back his skin and exposed it for all the world to see—and whether he knows it or not, he's trusting John not to break it. It's something he never wanted yet couldn't stop himself from having, and now he's given it to someone else for safekeeping.

John has wondered many times over the years why Adorations exist. They don't serve any practical function, and no one has ever been able to discover the link between emotion and the physical body that creates them.

As John stands there, looking at a man who is so obviously terrified of his own treacherous heart, he realises that Adorations are battle scars. They are the manifestation of the bravery each and every person displays when they allow someone to become special to them, to climb beneath their skin and wrap their fingers around the most tender part of them. No heart goes unscathed, no matter how gentle its caregiver is, but still it beats on.

The knowledge breaks the spell holding John still. He is across the room so quickly Sherlock doesn't have time to react.

John shoves him back, pinning him in place. The glass in the window pane rattles as the two men collide with it, and Sherlock's violin clatters to the floor.

Then John grabs Sherlock's face and presses their lips firmly together.

John doesn't know what he was expecting, but their mouths meld together like they were designed to. It's the most perfect sensation: hot and heady but impossibly soft. Arousal floods into John with such force it makes him dizzy. He needed this, has been missing this his entire life, and somehow he never knew it.

He feels Sherlock hesitate, stiffening against him and lifting his hands to John's shoulders like he's going to shove him back. A moment later, however, his fingers bury themselves in John's hair, and he melts beneath him. John can practically hear the need in Sherlock's ragged breathing, and it makes him impossibly hot. Sherlock is the most reasonable, rational person he knows, and here he is panting against his skin, unravelling from just a little kissing. John coaxes his lips apart and sinks deeply into his mouth, revelling in the warm slickness of him.

Sherlock makes the most delicious sound: low and deep, more vibration than anything else. John thinks he sounds like he's purring; the thought shoots straight between his legs, pooling low in his abdomen. He's never been this hard before in his life. He moves forward unthinkingly, shoving a leg between Sherlock's and rubbing his erection against his thigh. He groans when he feels answering hardness, heavy and thick against his belly.

John buries his face in Sherlock's neck, nipping hungrily at his skin, and slips a hand down to cup him through his trousers. Sherlock makes a startled noise of pleasure and bucks instinctively into the touch, seeking more friction. John is still rutting against his thigh, the sensation sharp and almost painful but exactly what he needs.

He doesn't know how it happens, but suddenly they're on the floor. He lands on his back with an _umph_ of air rushing from his lungs, and Sherlock looms over him, his bright eyes wild and his cheeks flushed. John has two seconds to blearily wonder how the hell they didn't crash into a piece of furniture before Sherlock's mouth is back on his, kissing him languidly, lazily, dipping deeply into him and rolling their tongues together. It's John's turn to melt, his body limp and open to the other man's touch. Sherlock is kissing him like he's memorising the taste of him, and John shudders beneath the force of such single-minded attention.

Sherlock slips a hand under his jumper and drags his fingernails down his stomach. John tries not to moan loudly but the sensation catches him so off guard he can't help the needy sound that pours from him. He can feel Sherlock smirking as he trails kisses down his exposed neck. John retaliates by hooking his leg around Sherlock's waist and pulling their hips together. They both groan when their clothed erections meet, hot and velvety between them.

"Christ, Sherlock," John gasps as the other man dips his tongue into the hollow of his throat, "I don't know why we didn't do this sooner. You feel incredible."

Sherlock stills. It takes John a second to notice, but when he does he opens his eyes and looks up. Sherlock is balanced on his arms above him, his face mere inches away. His lips are dark red from kissing, and his curls are mussed. His expression is unreadable, but John instinctively knows that he's done something wrong.

"Sherlock," he says cautiously, "what's the matter?"

Sherlock doesn't answer. He moves slowly back, climbing down John's body until he's resting on his heels near his feet. He's still breathing hard, but the heat is gone from his eyes. He studies John's face like it's one of his dried plant specimens.

John pushes himself up on his elbows, confused by the sudden turn of events. There's a question on Sherlock's face that he doesn't know the answer to.

"Sherlock?"

"We never did this before," Sherlock says slowly, "because I didn't want to. I wanted nothing to change between us."

"But why?" John sits up all the way, and Sherlock scrambles back, as if he's afraid of letting them get too close again. "You said you're in love with me, and I _know_ you were enjoying yourself just then. Why wouldn't you want to do this?"

"Irrelevant." Sherlock rises to his feet. "Succumbing to my emotions was a mistake and not one I intend to indulge. What transpired a moment ago was a temporary lapse in control. It won't happen again."

John clambers after him. There's no way he's going to have this conversation from the floor. "I don't understand. How can you love me and not want to be with me?"

Sherlock points to John's wrist. "How can you be with me when you don't love me? When you know this would mean so much more to me than to you?"

John looks down. His arms are covered by his jumper, but they both know John hasn't developed an Adoration for Sherlock. It would have burned when it appeared; he would have reacted to it in some way.

John covers his wrist with a hand defensively. "That's not fair. You can't make these things happen just because you want them to. I only now found out you're even interested in me. I'm sure in time, I'll—"

"You're missing the point," Sherlock interrupts. "I don't _want_ to be in love with you. I don't want you to love me. This whole situation never should have happened."

John feels a pang deep in his chest. "You regret it then?"

Sherlock pauses before he answers. Something flits across his face that briefly gives John hope, but then he says, "You know how I feel about love. Only idiots allow themselves to succumb to such a useless emotion. Look what it did to Irene Adler. She had everything, all of us right where she wanted us, but in the end it was snatched away because she couldn't control her emotions. Love compromises a person's ability to think logically and leads them to make foolish errors in judgment. I spent thirty-five years studiously avoiding it, and the fact that I failed infuriates me."

John isn't certain what hurts more: Sherlock's words or the absolutely cold look on his face as he says them. It's like John is a problem he's encountered that he must solve before he can move on to more important matters.

"So," John says quietly, "you want us to pretend this never happened? To stay friends and flatmates but completely ignore the fact that we have feelings for each other?"

"As I said before, pretending nothing happened isn't realistic, but we can certainly minimise the effect this has on our relationship. I'm confident my feelings will fade in time, as they are wont to do. Yours should be easy enough to ignore, considering they never fully developed."

John can't think of anything to say. Just dragging air into his lungs is an effort. Ugly thoughts ricochet in his head like bullets. Sherlock thinks loving him will slow him down. He wishes it had never happened.

"Right." John exhales sharply before clearing his throat and repeating, "Right. I think it would be best if I stayed with Harry for a few days."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "You can't stand your sister. Why wouldn't you stay here?"

"I just need some time to myself, all right?" John turns away, already thinking of the duffel bag he has upstairs and which pairs of jeans are in the wash. "Besides, if you're so keen to start getting over me, it'll be easier if we're not together."

He dashes up the stairs before Sherlock can respond and shuts his door with a bit more force than is strictly necessary. As soon as it's closed, he falls back against it. A sob escapes unbidden from his throat, but he stamps it down quickly.

An hour ago, he didn't even know Sherlock had feelings for him, he tells himself. He hasn't lost anything because he never had it to begin with. He doesn't even really know how he feels about Sherlock. He was just caught up in the moment.

He sighs and begins gathering clean socks and jumpers, shoving them unceremoniously into his bag. He needs to get away from here, far, far away from cheekbones and sharp eyes and a violin screeching at half three in the morning.

When he goes back downstairs, Sherlock is gone, and John can't say he's disappointed.

It isn't until he's outside and dialling Harry's number that it occurs to him he could never come back if he wanted to.

…

…

"You're making a terrible mistake."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns back to his book. "No one asked for your opinion."

Mycroft is regarding him with a particular disdainful expression that he knows Sherlock hates most. He's sat in John's armchair—probably to make some sort of statement—and Sherlock is perched on the armrest of the sofa.

"As I am the only one in this room who is yet to acquire an Adoration, I think you should give my opinion a bit more consideration."

Sherlock throws his book onto a cushion in disgust. He's never going to be able to concentrate with Mycroft droning on. "It was a moment of weakness, yes, but I'm endeavouring to correct it. I've told John we can't be together, and I'm working to suppress my feelings for him. As time passes, I'm certain things will return to the way they were."

Mycroft is quiet for a long moment. Sherlock can feel him studying him but refuses to meet his gaze.

"That," Mycroft finally says, "is exactly what I'm afraid of."

Sherlock thinks he understands, but that night as he lies in bed, another interpretation of Mycroft's warning pops into his head. The idea keeps him frozen in bed, eyes wide and heart pounding, until the grey-gold of dawn washes over the sky.

The way things were.

Sherlock had nearly forgotten there was a time before John.

…

…


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **This is the last chapter! I hope you've enjoyed this as much as I enjoyed writing it. :D

...

...

John remembers what things were like when he first returned from the war.

He was a proverbial lost soul, wandering the streets of a city he no longer belonged in, weary from battle but aching to go back. He was struggling in deep water, and just as his head went under, Sherlock appeared and pulled him back up to the surface.

He'd thought he was saved, that he'd found a new purpose in life. It had felt so good to dash through the streets of London with its maddest, most brilliant resident by his side. John had felt more alive than he had in years, flush with adventure and the scent of danger on the air.

Now, as he lies on his sister's threadbare sofa—it reeks of whiskey and sick—and stares up at her water-stained ceiling, the pain in his chest is so sharp he can feel it with every beat of his heart. He can't stop picturing Sherlock's face when he told him that he wished he didn't love him. He'd looked at John as if he were a nuisance, an uninvited guest that just wouldn't leave.

John has had his fair share of break ups in his life, and God only knows Sherlock and he weren't together in the first place, but he's never hurt this badly before. It doesn't make sense to him, how he can feel more heartache over someone he admittedly didn't love than all the people he did, but his relationship with Sherlock was always unique.

As he thinks back on their time together, it seems like a cruel joke. Sherlock gave him everything he didn't know he needed only to snatch it away again. He saved him from sinking and then left him to flounder.

John can't help but wonder—in the quiet hours of the night, as his loneliness radiates off of him in waves—if it wouldn't have been better if Sherlock had just let him drown in the first place.

…

…

Sherlock tries to imagine what the flat would look like if John didn't live there.

He scans the room from his seat on the sofa, his palms pressed together under his nose. His gaze flits from the folded newspapers on the coffee table to the mugs of tea next to John's partially-buried laptop to the abandoned cane in the umbrella stand by the door. The clutter is all Sherlock's, of course: stacks of case files, the skull, the mutilated remains of a Cluedo board, putrefied spiders and ash specimens.

It's funny, he thinks, how these things mean nothing by themselves, but when placed together they are a portrait of their life together. They speak of all the adventures they've had together and all the days when nothing more exciting happened than take-away and a film night. They are the punctuation in the story of John and Sherlock, the reminders to pause, breathe, think, to remember all the words that came before and race eagerly towards the ones that are yet to come.

Sherlock drifts over to John's armchair and picks up the Union Jack pillow, turning it slowly in his hands.

Trying to imagine the flat without John in it is like trying to imagine a painting with half the colours taken away.

…

…

John happens to look out the kitchen window while cooking dinner that night and nearly jumps out of his skin.

Sherlock is in front of Harry's house.

He's just standing there, staring at the front door. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of that ridiculous coat of his, and his blue pyjama bottoms are peeking out at his ankles. Four days without John, and it seems he's forgotten how to dress himself.

From the looks of the bags under his eyes and his sunken cheeks, he's forgotten how to eat and sleep as well. His curls are an unkempt mess, giving him the appearance of a wild thing.

John drops the spoon he's been using to stir spaghetti sauce and leans over the sink, craning his neck for a better look. Sherlock isn't coming up the walkway. He could be a black statue placed in the centre of their garden, he's so still. He looks tentative, like he's not entirely certain where he is or what he's doing. He takes a wavering step forward, and John's heart begins to race.

Just then, Sherlock glances at the window.

They both freeze. John doesn't understand how one look can simultaneously thrill and terrify him.

Sherlock's face vacillates between surprise and uncertainty before he whirls about and stalks resolutely towards the street.

John doesn't realise how hard he's gripping the edge of the sink until he lets go and has to flex his fingers to get the blood flowing again.

…

…

_The O'Millan trial is tomorrow. I've been called upon to testify. Will you accompany me? – SH _

_18:03 PM_

_Could be dangerous. – SH_

_18:17 PM_

_I attempted to make tea this evening. It appears you are not supposed to take the tea leaves out of the bag and dump them in the water. That was decidedly unpleasant. – SH_

_18:43 PM_

_It's your fault for buying all this bagged tea. I always used loose before you moved in. – SH_

_18:52 PM_

_John, I'm endeavouring to re-establish communication between us. It would be immensely beneficial to my cause if you would respond. – SH_

_19:02 PM_

_It's been eight days. Don't you think you're overreacting? – SH_

_19:15 PM_

_Mrs Hudson brought up sandwiches, but I won't eat them unless you return. – SH_

_19:26 PM_

_Would it help if I were to apologise? – SH_

_19:48 PM_

_John. – SH_

_20:00 PM_

_Please come back. – SH_

_20:01 PM_

_Please._

_20:07 PM_

…

…

John does eventually return to Baker Street.

When he walks through the door—his bag slung over his shoulder and his hair damp from the rain—the first thing he sees is Sherlock. He's standing in front of the mirror over the mantle, staring at his own reflection. He doesn't turn around when John enters the room. He doesn't move at all except for the subtle shifting of his chest as he breathes. His pale eyes are glassy and removed, as if Sherlock is actually worlds away from their flat in central London.

John watches him, silently debating if he should say something. A simple "Hello" seems insufficient, but he's too knackered to launch into an explanation of why he was gone for so long. He toys briefly with the idea of tossing out a theatrical, "Honey, I'm hoooome" to break the ice but discards it as exhaustion-induced rubbish. Sherlock hasn't so much as glanced in his direction, and John half-wonders if he honestly has no idea he's standing there.

This is ridiculous. John huffs sharply and climbs the stairs to his bedroom. It might take a few days, he assures himself, but he's certain things will grow less awkward with time.

The silence is ultimately broken that evening when John makes tea and Sherlock actually deigns to thank him.

It's slow going, with both of them dancing about each other, but eventually they fall into a semblance of their old, comfortable companionship. They laugh and watch telly and generally give every impression of returning to normal. It's a tremendous relief to them both.

Despite his best efforts, however, John can't entirely ignore the thread of tension that constantly pulls at them. It sits in the back of John's mind like a third, unwelcome tenant in 221B. He knows Sherlock feels it too. He can see it in his strained smiles and tired eyes.

Not a day passes that John doesn't curse the curiosity that made him check Sherlock's wrist in the first place.

He's starting to realise the very real possibility that they might never fully recover. He could lose Sherlock's friendship, and if that happens, he honestly doesn't know what he'll do.

Most of all, he regrets the way Sherlock looks at him now when he thinks John isn't paying attention. His eyes are so ineffably sad, they make John's heart wrench in his chest.

If this continues for much longer, one of them is bound to break. John can't begin to guess which one it will be.

…

…

"To John!" a male voice shouts from the back of the room, and two dozen people raise their glasses and chorus, "To John!"

The subject of the toast grins and raises a flute of champagne to his lips. Much as John is typically a beer man, two old mates from Bart's had gifted him with a fairly posh label, and he'd found himself surprisingly enjoying it. John's never had the classiest taste in alcohol, but he could get used to this.

"Having fun?"

John glances to his right and sees Sarah standing next to him, smiling warmly. He throws an affectionate arm around her shoulders and clinks his glass to hers. "Cheers. I'm having a fantastic time." He scans the conference room and whistles appreciatively. There are balloons of every colour floating in big bunches near the ceiling, several long white tables piled high with food and drink and a laptop set up in the corner with an 80s pop playlist blasting at full volume. "You lot did a great job. I still can't quite believe it."

"Oh, really?" she says in a teasing voice. "I was fairly certain this surprise party wasn't much of a surprise at all."

"Well," John shrugs, "I certainly noticed that people about the surgery were acting a bit odd the past few days, and I might have seen Elizabeth sneaking a cake into the back room and Jacob buying liquor from the corner shop." He winks playfully. "But honestly, I hadn't the faintest."

Sarah rolls her eyes. "You've been spending far too much time with Sherlock. Speaking of which, where is he? We sent him an invitation."

"That was actually your biggest mistake. I was there when he opened it, and he immediately started whinging about how pointless social gatherings are, especially ones that 'celebrate an event most sentient creatures aren't even cognisant enough to appreciate.' That was my first clue I was getting a party."

"Should have known. Well, that's a shame. I've not seen him in ages."

John shrugs. "He doesn't really like parties anyw—"

John staggers as someone—a very solid someone—crashes into him and crushes him into a hug.

"For 'e's a jolly good fello'!" Mike Stamford slurs, raising an entire bottle of champagne in the air. "Jolly good fellooooooo'!" His jacket is unbuttoned, and he's put on one of the ridiculous, pointed party hats that were meant to be a gag.

"Mike," John wheezes, hunching beneath the weight of his friend, "I think you may have had too much to drink."

"Nonsense!" Mike tips the champagne over John's glass—half filling it and half spilling it on the carpet—before taking a generous swig directly from the bottle. "The pa'ty's only jus' begun!"

Thankfully, John's phone chimes a second later, giving him an excuse to wriggle out of Mike's embrace and check it.

_I require your immediate assistance. There's not a moment to waste. – SH_

_20:27 PM_

John sighs. He hasn't seen Sherlock all day, but part of him dared to hope the git would at least wish him a happy birthday before ruining his plans.

"It's him, isn't it?" Sarah sidles up next to him, strategically moving away from Mike as he stumbles back and nearly ploughs into a folding chair.

John types a quick reply and smiles sheepishly. "Yeah. I hate to run out on my own party, but he says it's important." He hits send.

_Where shall I meet you? Crime scene? NSY?_

_20:28 PM_

Sarah can't quite hide her amusement. "He usually does. I figured this might happen. Hold on a mo'."

She disappears into the crowd just as John's phone chimes again.

_At our flat, and do be quick about it. – SH_

_20:31 PM_

"Here we are!" Sarah says cheerfully as she reappears. She hands him a slab of cling-film-covered birthday cake on a plate.

John takes it and smiles. "You're the best. You know that, yeah?"

She leans in and kisses him softly on the cheek. "Of course, though I do wish you'd been clever enough to work that out while we were dating."

John shuffles from foot to foot. "I knew it, I just . . . ." He sighs. "My priorities aren't always in the right place, I suppose. If you'd told me a year ago that someday I'd consider it normal to leave my own surprise party and go chasing after criminals, I'd have called you mental."

"And yet here we are." Sarah's expression is knowing as she steers him towards the door. "Tell Sherlock I said hi and that he's a very lucky man."

John doesn't bother to stutter a denial. He gives her one last chaste kiss and heads out the door. He expects everyone to protest, but they're either too drunk or too accustomed to Sherlock to pay much mind to his departure.

It takes him two minutes to hail a cab (bloody bastards seem to enjoy driving right past him) and twelve minutes to get to Baker Street. Once he arrives, he throws a handful of notes at the cabby, unlocks the front door to 221B and bounds up the stairs.

"Sherlock!" he calls energetically as he reaches their floor. "I got here as fast as I c—"

He stops dead in his tracks, blinking slowly.

The charred remains of the roast Mrs Hudson brought them yesterday are laid out on their coffee table next to three large, lit candles and an uncorked bottle of red wine. There are more candles sprinkled about the flat, illuminating it in soft, warm light. There are a few more bowls and plates on the coffee table, but he can't make out what they contain. One is filled with some form of brown goo and another almost appears to be full of courgettes, if they were chopped up and then boiled into oblivion.

Sherlock is standing near the mantle with his violin tucked under his chin. He's wearing expertly-tailored black trousers that emphasise his long legs and a tight, silvery-blue dress shirt. He pivots slowly until he's facing John, a small smile tugging at his lips. The candlelight gives his skin a pearlescent tone, and his shirt makes his eye colour practically glow.

John's mouth goes dry for reasons he either can't explain or won't. It takes him an embarrassing ten seconds to collect himself and shake his head as if dispelling a vision.

John is just about to ask him what the hell is going on when Sherlock places his bow delicately to his violin's silver strings.

Slowly, and with more beauty than John would have thought possible, Sherlock plays a sonorous version of a very well-known song: _Happy Birthday_. His fingers slide through scales and flourishes, adding layers of sound to the melody. He lingers on some notes and just barely flirts with others. John would never have thought it was possible to take such a simple tune and make it so complex, but then he'd never before known a man like Sherlock Holmes.

When he finishes, John sets his cake down and applauds vigorously, his appreciation for the performance overriding his confusion.

"That was wonderful, Sherlock," he says, and then gestures at the table. "Is this for me?"

"It is," Sherlock says, setting his violin on John's armchair and striding over. "I researched popular ways to celebrate birthdays on the Internet, and several reputable sites suggested dinner. Unfortunately, my cooking skills have never been the most remarkable." He stoops down to pick up the bowl of what John is now certain is soggy courgettes and eyes it, frowning slightly. "It may be best if we dine out this evening."

John blinks. "You tried to make dinner? Now there's a first. I'm fine with take-away if that's all right." He's debating the virtues of Thai versus Italian when he remembers the text Sherlock sent him. "But what about the case? You said it was important."

"Ah, yes." Sherlock puts the bowl back in its place and heads towards the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "That was a bit of a ruse of my part. I was merely excited to give you your gift and wanted you to hurry home."

He returns a moment later with a small package wrapped in simple brown paper. He holds it out to John, but the other man can only stare stupidly at it.

"You . . . got me a present?"

"I believe that's rather obvious at this point."

John's brain struggles to wrap itself around the concept. "That's very, well, thoughtful of you."

Sherlock's frown deepens. "Try not to sound so bewildered."

"Right, right." John takes the package and smiles. "Sorry, I'm just surprised. Thank you, Sherlock."

He tears the paper eagerly open, wondering what his mad flatmate could possibly have bought him. It's probably a frog's heart or a new set of test tubes for their kitchen/laboratory.

When he rips the last of the paper away, it takes John a moment to process what he's holding. In his hands is a copy of _Harold and the Purple Crayon_, and at first he thinks it's new.

Then he realises it's the same one he lent to Sherlock when he twisted his ankle, only it looks as if it's never been handled before. The cover is glossy, and the colours are as bright as if they were just printed. The little scratches and nicks have been mended; even the pages that were falling out have been secured with new binding. It's as if Sherlock has gone back in time and retrieved his favourite childhood story precisely as it was when he first read it. John opens the cover and listens to the satisfying crack as the spine bends for what seems like the first time. His name is still written on the inside in the messy scrawl of a young boy. Holding it now, he feels like he's eight years old again, and his mother has just handed this to him after a thunderstorm left him huddling under his bed. At the time, he'd imagined what he'd do if he had a magic crayon like Harold's. He'd draw a perfect, sunny sky every day and make himself a brave knight who slayed dragons and laughed at monsters. He'd never feared thunderstorms again after that.

Now, as John holds the book that inspired him to make his life what he wanted it to be, a different kind of fear lifts off his shoulders and dissipates into the air.

John is utterly speechless. He knows Sherlock is watching him, waiting for him to say something, but he can't seem to make his voice work.

Eventually, Sherlock says, "Do you like it? I rang in a favour from an old friend who works in book restoration. Well, when I say friend." His tone is so uncertain it snaps John out of his stupour.

"Sherlock," he breathes, raising his eyes to look at the man before him one infinitesimal degree at a time, "you really love me, don't you?"

It's Sherlock's turn to be rendered speechless. His eyes widen in a way that would have been comical had the situation been less tense.

"I mean, I know you do," John continues, gently, cautiously, as if his words are the only thing keeping him balanced on the edge of a blade. "The Adoration made that much obvious, but . . . you ignore your 'transport' so much, I never quite believed it. I thought this was another one of those things you could just force yourself not to need, like eating or sleeping, and at first it seemed I was right, but—" He looks down at the book again and strokes a thumb lovingly over its cover. "But this, _this_ is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me. This is _real_."

He peers up into Sherlock's unreadable blue eyes and says, "Isn't it?"

Sherlock is quiet for what feels like ages, and John's heart begins to sink in his chest. He may have made a grave miscalculation. They're supposed to be pretending the Adoration doesn't exist, that they're still just flatmates and friends. The problem is John can't decide if it's truly better to pretend than to be honest about his feelings.

"Please," John whispers, his voice steady despite the maelstrom of jumbled emotions raging within him. "Please tell me this is real."

Sherlock hesitates, searching John's face as if it will tell him what to do. He looks as lost as John feels, and it seems entirely possible that he may walk out the door right now.

But then he leans down, achingly slowly, and presses his lips to John's ear.

"It's real," Sherlock whispers, his warm breath tickling against him.

Suddenly, words aren't enough. John knows it's foolish and that Sherlock might hate him for it, but the impulse surges into him so strongly he can do nothing to stop it. John sets the book carefully on the table and then grabs Sherlock's face in his hands, kissing him fiercely.

Sherlock makes a soft _uumph _sound as their mouths crash together, and John jumps at the opportunity to dip his tongue past his parted lips. He tastes like tea and the toothpaste they share. John digs his fingers into his dark curls and kisses him with all the pent-up frustration the past few weeks have built in him. The feeling of warm, soft flesh against his is every bit as perfect as it was when they first kissed, and he presses forward, eagerly seeking more. To his immense surprise, Sherlock kisses him back with alacrity, moulding their bodies together as his tongue darts out to swipe wetly at John's bottom lip.

The kiss is desperate and deep, the proverbial opening of the floodgates. They tear at each other's clothing, desperate to get at the hot skin beneath it. John feels cool air against his chest as Sherlock's nimble fingers make quick work of his button-down shirt. It's wrenched from his shoulders just as his hands find Sherlock's belt and fling it open, yanking it from the loops. There's no time to think; they need this _now_. Desire, heady and intoxicating, pumps into John's veins, making his head spin with the potency of it.

Sherlock is pressing forward, crowding him backwards until he hits the wall. John can feel Sherlock's thickening cock pressing against his belly, and he cants his hips up until his own presses against a hot thigh.

"Oh God," he groans against soft lips. The friction is too much, but he can feel the heat of Sherlock's body through his trousers, and it makes blood surge into his cock.

"John," Sherlock gasps, "John, I want—" He breaks off when John slides his zip open and shoves a hand into his pants, palming him. He's too lust-addled to put any real finesse into it, but that seems to spur Sherlock on. The man is positively vibrating with pleasure, his head thrown back to expose the creamy length of his neck. John wants to enjoy this, to wring every drop of pleasure from the walking wet dream now clinging to him like he's the only source of gravity in the universe, but he's so aroused he's dizzy. This is not going to be a slow and sensual bout of love-making. They need to get off _right fucking now, _or surely they'll both burst.

"Just, please, just let me," John babbles, half-incoherent with need, as he pulls himself out of his pants and lines his prick up with Sherlock, "like this. Oh God, Sherlock, _yes._" John has them both in hand and is stroking them with long, languid pumps. Sherlock is quivering against him, gripping his shoulders so hard it hurts, but John can't bring himself to care. Sherlock is a panting, writhing mass of flesh, moaning like a wanton thing. His voice is so deep and velvety it's obscene. John thinks he could come from the sound of it alone, though the feel of Sherlock's hot, heavy prick rutting against his is a welcome addition. They're slick with sweat and precome, and John moves his hand faster, fisting their cocks tightly. He spasms as his fingers roll over the fat heads of their cocks, the pleasure so sharp it's almost too intense. He feels as though a slight breeze would be enough to make him come right now, but he needs to see Sherlock first.

He slides his now-wet cock out of his hand and focuses solely on Sherlock, pumping him quickly at the base and tugging the foreskin just enough to make the other man shudder. Sherlock's eyes are clenched shut as if he can't bear the sensations coursing through him. His mouth is hanging open, and a gush of half-formed words and desperate moans are pouring freely from him.

Just as John thinks he could watch him like this forever, Sherlock cracks one bleary eye open and says, "_John_" in a voice so shattered, so utterly wrecked, they both know there's no hope for them left. His orgasm overtakes him, shuddering through the length of his lean body in a way John can only describe as beautiful. The sight sears into John like a physical touch, and even without a hand on his cock, it's enough to send him over the edge.

John doesn't come so much as dissolve into pleasure. He's vaguely aware of warmth and wetness blossoming on his stomach, but his world consists of the dancing black spots clouding his vision and the impossible solidity of the body against him. Sherlock has converted his name into a vibration, and it buzzes just beneath his skin.

It feels like an age passes before John's breathing slows and he can make sense of what he's seeing. Sherlock is resting his forehead on his shoulder, his mouth open as he breathes heavily. They're both half out of their clothes and gleaming with sweat.

Despite the lack of technical prowess and the fact that they both lasted all of eight minutes, it was easily the best sex John had ever had.

Now that the post-coital glow has faded, however, he knows they need to talk.

"Sherlock," John says quietly. The other man doesn't respond, so he nudges his cheek with his nose. "Sherlock, you don't have to say anything if you don't want to, but there's something I need to say."

Sherlock grunts, which is about as much affirmation as John could have hoped for.

He inhales slowly and takes both of Sherlock's hands in his. "I remember what you said before, about how you didn't want to be in love and that you regretted it. If that's still how you feel, this can be a one-off. I'll never bring it up again. I'm too proud to pine after you if you don't want me. I hate pretending we're just friends, but I'd hate myself even more if I forced you to be with me if you don't want to be."

He pauses, swilling his words about in his mouth. "But . . . can you honestly tell me you regret this?" He waves vaguely at the flat, at the amalgamation of all their time together. "Our friendship? The life we have together? Do you really regret _me_?"

The silence that falls between them is deafening. John feels like all the oxygen has been sucked out of the room. His heart is beating even more wildly now than it was before. Sherlock still has his head on John's shoulder, but now his body is rigid with tension.

Gradually, he looks up. His eyes are whirring with some unfathomable emotion. John's never been so afraid of another human being in his life. He's starting to understand why Sherlock avoided falling in love for so many years.

After a long moment, Sherlock lets out a sharp breath, and then a smile ghosts across his lips.

"I could never regret you, John."

The words make something like sunlight burst in his chest. John's momentarily too stunned to respond, and Sherlock takes advantage of his silence to say, "I thought my feelings would fade with time, but now I know there's a reason why Adorations never go away. Love can change, people can part ways and move on, but the ones who make it into our hearts are always in there somewhere. I don't know what I'd do if you weren't in my life anymore. I—" His voice breaks, and for a moment he looks so terrified, John squeezes his hands reassuringly. "I'm terrified of how much you could hurt me if you wanted to, but," he inhales sharply and squares his shoulders, "but I trust you not to. There's no one I feel safer giving my heart to. I know you'll take care of it. I don't regret this, John. I love you."

John's heart lurches strangely in his chest, and for a moment he thinks he's ill. Then his left arm blazes with a sharp burning sensation that is all-too familiar. He jerks it up without letting go of Sherlock's hand, baring their tender flesh. On his left wrist, in a precise mirror image of the one on Sherlock's right, is a new Adoration, glowing like an ember amongst the dark red of his others.

"Sherlock," John mouths, too stunned to form the sounds properly. There's light bubbling beneath his skin and electricity crackling down his spine. He's never felt anything like it before, yet he recognises it instantly. "God, I love you, too. I love you so much."

When he looks up, Sherlock is staring at his wrist with wide, child-like eyes. "I never thought . . . ." he whispers. "I mean, I would have been happy just to have you with me. I never thought you would—"

"Shut up, Sherlock," John says gleefully, tugging the other man closer. He aligns their wrists and presses them together so their Adorations fall perfectly in place. "Shut up, and kiss me."

For once, Sherlock obeys without complaint.

…

…

Years later, Sherlock lies on his stomach in bed and watches the steady breathing of the man sleeping next to him. Soft, morning light filters through the window and alights on the body of John Watson like so many fireflies. His face is slack and youthful in sleep, though every now and then his eyes crinkle at the corners as if his dreams are bringing him some hazy delight. It's quite possibly the most beautiful thing Sherlock has ever seen.

He strokes the single line on his wrist, the final proof that Sherlock Holmes has a heart after all. It's as bright and crisp as it was the day it burned into his skin. He'd thought then that it would be the ruin of him, and in many ways it was. The work is no longer the only love in is life, and the many long hours he once spent on experiments and seven-percent solutions have now been replaced with cups of tea and film nights in the flat. He still remembers the life he had before: a life where he'd never had to share any part of himself with anyone else, and he'd convinced himself it was for the best. But now, as the days they've had become memories and the days they will have sprawl invitingly out before them, Sherlock thinks to himself that if all he ever does is ensure John Watson never needs to earn another Adoration, his life will have been a good one.

…

The end.


End file.
